


The Exhibition

by Scriblit



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Bridget Jones Fight, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 17:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20231389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriblit/pseuds/Scriblit
Summary: There is a time and a place for a Bridget Jones Fight, and that is on a screen that David is able to watch from under a blanket. When it's in real life, between his fiancé and his ex, in a public space, underneath an explicit picture of himself that he doesn't remember being taken, it isn't fun or flattering at all. It's scary, and he really wishes that his entire family wasn't also here to witness the whole sorry scene.Spoilers for the end of S5. Implied horribleness of past relationships.





	The Exhibition

**Author's Note:**

> I watched this whole show in about 2 weeks & had to get this story out before I can write anything else. Everything described is between adults, but implies dubious consent, the non-consensual taking and sharing of sexually explicit photos, drug abuse, past emotional abuse and domestic violence. There is also minor violence from the start. Darker content than the show would use, but I promise it also has jokes.

THE EXHIBITION

-x-

‘No! No!’

The fist moves faster than David could possibly move to stop it. A terrible, meaty, crunching sound. Ugh. God. That sounds like a nose breaking.

Screams. Women screaming. Men. Him? Yep, that’s him screaming. 

‘Stop it! Stop!’

Ugh, he sounds disgusting when he gets all stressed and screamy like this. This is awful.

His sister’s screaming, too. Horrified, but with very obvious overtones of amusement.

Wow. Thanks for that, Alexis. Very classy. So glad you came along to be an audience member at this actual waking nightmare.

Stevie, sprinting away. Great. That’s perfect.

Ted, dithering, meeting Alexis’ gaze, unsure whether to intervene. 

His father, attempting to step forwards, but being dragged back by the shoulders.

‘Johnny no, you mustn’t,’ his mother wails, ‘I forbid it! What if you are struck? Caught in the crossfire or beaten to a pulp in a vengeful frenzy?’

His father’s eyes: bewildered, apologetic, pleading. ‘David… could you do something?’

He is _trying_ to do something! He’s been shouting and shouting but it hasn’t worked.

The fist, again. And blood, now. Ew.

‘Stop it!’ He grabs the first thing to hand that he might conceivably use as a weapon. It’s a frankly lovely piece of textile art representing a Trans woman’s unique perspective upon femininity. He brandishes it as menacingly as he can, even though if you took one glance at the piece you’d know he’d never actually hit anybody with it, it’d fall apart as soon as it so much as made contact with a body in motion, and he’d never do that to any work of art, even without the ramifications of a cis male abusing a feminist statement as part of an honest to God fist fight. Frankly, the patriarchy is having enough of a fucking field day already without him sacrificing this lady’s exquisite tapestry to the temple of toxic masculinity to boot.

He waves the embroidered nipples helplessly. ‘Please stop! I’m scared, Patrick! You’re scaring me!’

Patrick stops. He stares. The blind fury leaves Patrick’s eyes, and is replaced with… with sorrow.

That’s not much of an improvement on the rage, if he’s being honest, but he can work with sadness. What he cannot work with is violence. And the violence is over now. That’s good. That’s good.

‘Now fellas,’ croons his father in businesslike tones. ‘I’m sure that this has just been a big misunderstanding, and we can work this out. We’re all adults, we’ve all been there, we all know that matters of the heart can be an emotional…’

A leg lashes out suddenly from behind the distracted Patrick, kicking him hard in the back of the knee and sending him toppling.

‘Hey!’ cries Alexis, no longer amused by the fight now that it’s Patrick who runs the risk of getting beaten up.

‘No!’ He drops the artwork and dashes forwards towards the fray. ‘No, _you_ don't get to hit _him!_’

But Sebastien’s already on top of Patrick. Sebastien’s nose is gushing blood, gross, and yes, it does look broken. He raises his fist.

David jumps.

‘David!’ His mother’s voice. ‘What are you doing?’

Wait, what _is _he doing? What makes him think throwing himself between Sebastien and Patrick is going to stop Sebastien? Would he take a punch for Patrick? Absolutely. Does he want to take a punch for Patrick? Not if he can help it. Has he been hit before? Hundreds of times. Has it toughened him up? Ha! It’s cute that he can joke with himself in a situation like this. 

Sebastien’s fist hits David’s chin.

‘_Hey!_’ Alexis cries, incensed by now.

‘My baby!’ That’s his mother, obviously.

‘I’m gonna go get somebody, Mr Rose, this has gone too far, now.’ That’s Ted.

‘David!’ _There’s_ Patrick, behind David now, or maybe a little bit underneath David, he landed awkwardly. Anyway, Patrick sounds muffled and appalled.

Sebastien grabs David’s arms and tries to haul him out the way.

‘David, go back to your family. This has nothing to do with you.’

‘Nothing to _do_ with me??’

His fiancé is engaged in a fist-fight with his ex, in front of his family and his now strangely absent best friend, he’s just been, albeit accidentally, punched in the face, and it’s nothing to do with him?

And, you know what? He’d find the whole ‘nothing to do with him’ of it all a lot easier to believe if all of this,_ all_ of this, wasn’t taking place underneath an A0 Giclée black and white print of himself getting fucked in the ass.

-x-

‘My son! The muse for an exhibition!’

The time? Three days before. His mother? Delighted, and somehow capable of pronouncing every single letter in the word “exhibition”.

David rolled his eyes for a full three seconds. ‘It isn’t about me. At least not specifically. The exhibition theme is “lov-_ers_”. Plural. And believe me, that man’s lovers were in the plural. Including, it turns out, for the entire time he was dating me.’

‘Huh. My future husband used to date some real class acts, it seems.’

David’s arms went immediately to Patrick. It was just a cute, loving little gesture he often did when Patrick sounded slightly off; to comfort and reassure him, and definitely not as an automatic attempt to stop him running away, ha ha, why would Patrick want to run away, he’d said he loved David; he’d done the proposing. Stop being stupid and pathetic, David.

‘It was a long time ago,’ David informed the nape of Patrick’s neck. ‘But yes, my romantic decisions have been shocking. Present company excepted.’

Patrick hummed with amused acceptance. Stevie, for her part, treated him to an elaborate bow of sarcastic gratitude at the semi-compliment, which made him laugh.

‘I think it’s cute.’ Alexis booped him on the nose. Eurgh. ‘You used to be all behind the scenes at art stuff and now you get to be a model. It’s like a promotion.’

‘That is not a “promotion”.’

‘So, does Sebastien Raine call all his exes in to do separate studio shots, or is a big group thing, like at a graduation? Do you all throw little sex mortar boards into the air, like “Yay, we graduated from Sebastien Raine’s penis”?’

This only deserved a one second eye roll. ‘He’s using old photos from when we were dating, OK?’

‘Ooh, which ones?’

His mother caught his arm, a hopeful glint in her eye. ‘Are they nudes, dear? You know, you were at your best weight back when you were with Sebastien Raine.’

‘Um, yeah, because we were both on an absolute shit-tonne of coke at the time.’

‘Jeez.’ Patrick’s face, full of concern. Bless you, Patrick.

‘Obviously I’m off it now,’ David told him. ‘Couldn’t afford it even if I wanted to.’

‘Although Mummy could probably find you a reputable cut-price vendor, dear, if you wanted to drop a few pounds for the wedding.’

‘Ew! No thank you!’

‘Mom!’ Alexis’s face was a picture of affront. ‘You never offer _me_ cut price drugs!’

‘I never posed nude for him,’ David told them all. ‘He took some reportage shots when I was putting together an immersive sensory experience in aid of Dog Epilepsy.’

‘Awww,’ cooed Ted. Why was he even at the motel? He’d just come back from Galapagos; didn’t he have a backlog of animals to fix? ‘Epileptic dogs – now they’re the real heroes.’

‘So it’ll probably be one of those,’ David told them. ‘I’ll just be stuck in a corner or something. One of hundreds. At least.’

Ted put up a hand. ‘Would the photos have any epileptic dogs in them?’

‘No Ted, the sensory experience wasn’t for the dogs to use.’

Ted lowered his hand again, disappointed.

‘Still,’ said his father, rubbing his hands. ‘It would be nice to come along for the exhibition’s opening. Get out of this old town and into the big city for the day. Support our wonderful son… get out of this town. For a day.’

‘I’m coming too.’ Stevie grinned.

‘Surely, you need to look after the motel,’ David reminded her.

‘Roland can take care of it for a day.’

‘Good God. You can’t be serious.’

‘Oh, I’m deadly serious.’ Stevie’s face did not look even remotely serious. ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

-x-

The gallery was… he decided to call it ‘eclectic’, in the name of diplomacy. People who no longer get to curate exhibitions because it turns out their parents were bankrolling the whole endeavour and have since gone bust, do not get to throw stones. The shared space was not what he’d have gone with, but then, when did Sebastien Raine ever go with his opinion?

‘Well,’ his mother trilled, resplendent in Madeline, her third favourite wig, ‘isn’t this… bijou?’

‘”Bijou”, yeah. That’s exactly the word I was looking for, Mrs Rose.’ Stevie was enjoying this way too much. ‘So where are you, David? Is there a map? A map in “lovers”? To you?’

‘Um…’ Alexis consulted the programme. ‘It’s split into dates, except he’s calling them “eras”? When were you, David?’

David sighed. ‘2010’.

‘”Room 3. 2009-2011: Post Crash”. Aww, David, you get to be _post_ crash. And not just “crash”.’

‘Thanks, Alexis. Makes me feel so much better. Well, let’s just get this over and done with, shall we?’

He tried to lead the way to Room 3, but Patrick tugged at his sleeve. 

‘You sure you definitely want to do this? A lot of these pictures are kind of… intimate.’

David looked around at Room 1 (2001-2004: Ground Zero). Yes, now that Patrick mentioned it, there were a lot of nudes. Several of the photos seemed to have been taken as a part of foreplay. Gross. But then, you give an 18 year old with an 18 year old’s libido a camera and what do you expect? The exhibition was tracking Sebastien’s maturing sexuality – the nature of the photos would mature along with the timeline. Besides, he definitely hadn’t said yes to any of those kinds of photos, back when he’d been with Sebastien.

Had he? He really had been on a _lot_ of coke. In fact, he couldn’t now remember a time back in 2010 when Sebastien _hadn’t_ asked him to share a line before sex.

No. No, he would have remembered. He smiled at Patrick. ‘It’s fine.’

He strode through towards Room 3, trying to put out of his mind the fact that, while Sebastien may have been a hormonal teen when he took those first photos, he certainly wasn’t a hormonal teen when he made the decision to exhibit them.

Room 2 was worse.

‘Why do so few of these people have heads?’ his father asked.

‘Why are so many of them facing away from the camera?’ Patrick added, pointedly.

‘Sebastien was always in to backs,’ David told them all, blithely. ‘He liked parts of the body that the owner can’t see. He liked knowing things about people that they didn’t know themselves.’

‘Did he, now,’ said Patrick, darkly.

‘I didn’t pose for anything like these butchers’ windows,’ David reassured everybody. ‘There was one time when the sunlight was coming in really nice and he asked me to lift my sweater a smidge, that’s as fresh as it got. We were both mature men in our 20s, and his style reflected that. It’ll be lifted sweater or dog fundraiser…’

‘Really hope it’s the dogs,’ added Ted, cheerfully.

‘So,’ David warned them, as they stepped into Room 3, ‘prepare to be seriously underwhel…ohshit.’

They all stopped dead in their tracks, looking up at the grotesquely oversized and explicit photograph, overshadowing the rest of the room.

‘David,’ breathed Stevie. ‘That’s…’

‘Uh-huh,’ he managed.

‘No no no no no,’ moaned his mother. ‘No, that is not my boy.’

‘I trust that it’s been a while since you’ve seen that part of him, Mrs Rose, but believe me, that’s David.’

Ted was the first one capable of tearing his eyes away from the image. He looked across at Stevie. ‘Wait, I know you two were… you know. But how would a _girl_ know what he looks like from _that_ angle?’

Stevie gave Alexis a pitying look. Alexis shrugged, unhappily.

‘What?’ asked Ted.

‘We’ll talk about it later,’ Alexis whispered. ‘Maybe for my birthday, or something.’

‘What??’

‘Guys,’ said Patrick, with a dangerous quietness, ‘I love you all, but would you mind shutting the fuck up?’

‘Patrick,’ David managed. ‘I didn’t know this was going to happen. I…’

‘You didn’t know?’ Shit, he sounded furious.

‘Of course I didn’t know! Do you think I’d have come all this way too see _this_? Let alone let any of you come with me? My sister? My mom? My…’

His dad still hadn’t said anything. God, his dad, that was probably the worst one, worse even than Patrick. He was just staring silently at the photo, eyebrows high with horror. His dad. His dad, looking at… that.

‘You didn’t know,’ echoes Patrick again. ‘You didn’t consent to this being taken?’

‘I…’

‘David, it’s important.’ Patrick’s rage had become so cold that it was practically businesslike. David hated it. ‘Did you consent to this photo being taken?’

Did he? How was he supposed to remember a flash moment in the middle of cocaine-fuelled sex almost a decade ago? His back was turned and, while he couldn’t see what was happening with his head, it was probably being crushed into the mattress. But he’d have had the wherewithal to notice a camera being pulled out, wouldn’t he? 

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember.’ It sounded pathetic, but it was the truth.

‘But you didn’t consent to it being exhibited like this.’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Did you consent to the sex?’

‘Yes! We were dating!’

Patrick’s expression didn’t soften an iota.

‘He’s hurting you.’ It was his father’s voice. Soft. Sad. He still hadn’t been able to tear his gaze from the photo. 

‘No, Dad. No.’ David paused. ‘Well, a little, but that’s just how we were, what we were in to. Please stop looking at that thing, it’s just creating a lot of confusion, and…’

Stevie snorted. ‘You expect me to believe you’ve ever actively been in to anything that leaves those kinds of bruises? Mister “I can’t be naked on Polyester, it’s bad for my skin”?’

‘Mister “close that window, there’s a draft”?’ added Patrick. David hoped for a moment that this was turning into a ‘making fun of David’ game, and that the tension would be able to pass, but both Patrick and Stevie were still wearing horribly grim expressions. They were a long way away from laughing about this.

‘OK, it was mostly what Sebastien was into, but it was always consensual.’

‘After how much coercion?’ asked Patrick.

David didn’t answer that one.

‘Sebastien Raine always has had quite the silver tongue,’ said his mother, with an unusual soberness.

‘OK, so just one more question,’ says Patrick, with that same chilling businesslike tone, ‘where do I find this son of a bitch?’

‘Patrick, no.’

‘I know he’s got to be here somewhere, even though barely anyone else is.’

‘Oh, it’s just super early,’ Alexis told him. ‘Most people will be fashionably late. You know. People who don’t live like a trillion miles away and have an early start tomorrow.’

‘There’s staff handing out cheese,’ Patrick said. ‘I know enough about you people’s world to know that if somebody’s paid staff to hand out cheese, they’ll be around somewhere, if only to eat the cheese and criticize the people holding the plates of cheese.

Was that a dig at him? That felt like maybe it was a dig at him, but there was no time to bring it up, because it was at that moment that a cube of Gouda on a stick appeared, followed closely by Sebastien Raine, smiling in the doorway; the offending photograph hanging over his head like a pornographic halo.

‘Wow, you brought the whole family! And some hangers on! Welcome, Roses and assorted extras.’ Sebastien pointed upwards. ‘You like it?’

‘Um.’ David was desperate to say something before anybody else had chance to. ‘As I believe I mentioned several times to you before, humiliation is not my kink. So.’ He waved his hands in the general direction of the enormous photo. ‘Kindly take this… Flesh Guernica down now. Thanks so much.’

Sebastien’s face furrowed ever so slightly. ‘But it’s art. An unflinching portrait of a man at his most vulnerable.’

‘I can be vulnerable enough with my pants on, actually.’

‘Also,’ said Stevie, ‘it doesn’t have his face in it, so not sure how we’re calling it a portrait.’

Sebastien turned his smile back to full beam. ‘Hello again, Georgie. Is the angry potato with you?’

‘Her name is Stevie,’ said Patrick, blandly, ‘and the “angry potato” is currently considering what legal action he can take over this exhibition’s sexual abuse of his fiancé.’

Sebastien didn’t even make eye contact with Patrick. ‘Fiancé! David! Congrats! Seriously! You managed to find _somebody_ who’d keep you, and in that sad little town at that! I always said there’d be someone out there for you, if you continued to cast your net wide enough. And you’re getting married, what a quaint little suburban idea for you and your quaint little suburban guy. What’s the happy occasion to be? Plastic arch in a pumpkin field followed by beers at that café that smelled of disinfectant?’

‘What’s wrong with disinfectant?’ asked Ted, quietly. ‘Means it’s clean.’

‘Stop trying to change the subject, please,’ David told Sebastian. 

Patrick interrupted him. ‘Did David know you were taking that photo? Did he consent? Did any of these people?’

Sebastian addressed the room. ‘Does the magnificent wildebeest know that a wildlife photographer is capturing it at the watering hole? Does the hummingbird give its permission for a telescopic lens to photograph its  
jeweled wings mid-flight? When the artistic muse takes you then the artistic muse takes you, and the human animal is an animal nonetheless…’

‘Wildebeests and hummingbirds don’t feel violated and humiliated when their photos are shown to all and sundry.’ Patrick’s voice was growing louder. ‘This isn’t wildlife photography; these are creep shots. You’re no better than a dirty little pervert taking pictures up girls’ skirts.’

Sebastien shook his head, with a light laugh. ‘Well, there’s a surprise; Mister Average is morally offended by my art. Happens all the time, Peter, don’t worry about it, David understands the importance of the piece, don’t you, David?’

Did he? _Was_ it an important piece?

‘Yes,’ he told Sebastien. ‘I understand that it’s disgusting, and I want you to take it down.’

Sebastien shook his head, still smiling. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’

‘Literally the first thing I said when you came in here, Sebastien.’

Sebastien’s smile still didn’t drop. ‘David. Oh, David. That town is unraveling you. Who knew it could turn you into such a short-sighted prude? Cringing away from your own body? Marriage! To a… a sentient bowl of oatmeal.’

‘You are getting weirdly aggressive about my engagement.’

‘Oooh,’ breathed Alexis, her eyes bright with realization.

‘Well, I tell you what, David,’ continued Sebastien, his smile freezing faintly; no longer quite reaching his eyes, ‘if you hate my photo so much, why don’t you just steal and destroy it, after sucking my cock as a distraction? You’re good at that.’

‘Oooh,’ re-stated Alexis, pointing a mocking finger. ‘Sebastien Raine is having negative emotions!’

‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about now,’ Patrick told Sebastien. ‘I don’t care what your ancient history with my fiancé is; I just want you to take down that picture and never use it ever again.’

‘Oh, David’s little stunt was only a couple of years ago.’ Sebastien paused, his smile growing ever more shark-like. ‘Why, you’d already set up your hilarious shop with him by that point, hadn’t you?’

‘Oooh!’ Alexis started bouncing on her toes in glee.

‘It was before we got together,’ David hurriedly assured Patrick. ‘I didn’t even know you liked me yet.’ A thought struck him. ‘Wait, how would you know about Patrick and the store…?’

Alexis’ finger was out again. ‘He must have stalked you on social media! He’s jealous! And… bitter! And…’

‘Why would I be jealous of a shitty little shop and a shitty little man?’

Alexis leaned in to David. ‘They’re about thirty seconds away from a Bridget Jones Fight,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘I’m excited.’

‘What?’

‘Sebastien dear, neither the Apothecary nor Patrick are in any way low quality,’ said his mother, ‘just because they’re small.’

‘Would you all stop letting Sebastien change the subject?’ David needed to cool this down and fast. Bridget Jones Fighting had a time and a place, and that was in a movie he could safely watch from under a blanket, not in an albeit ramshackle gallery. ‘I would just like you to remove the photo,’ he told Sebastien, ‘and then I can go back to my “shitty” shop and “oatmeal” fiancé, so that you never have to hear from me again.’

‘I have a better idea.’ The full Sebastien smile was back again. ‘You go away, stop clutching your pearls, let art be art and get on with your boring life, trying to keep a boring husband interested in boring old you. Maybe one night you’ll need the precious memory of today as a much needed titillating spark. A reminder of when you were thinner and more attractive.’ 

His mother squinted once more at the photo. ‘You know, I’m starting to think you were _too _thin back then, my love.’

‘Bridget Jones Fight,’ whispered Alexis, again, beaming. ‘Over _you_, for a change!’

Nope. There wasn’t going to be a Bridget Jones Fight. Not today. His self esteem had taken bigger knocks than this in the name of the greater good. He would simply walk away, and Patrick would walk with him, away from the brewing fight.

He sighed in a manner that he hoped expressed withering revulsion, tinged with cooler-than-thou boredom, and turned to leave.

‘Good old David,’ smiled Sebastien, ‘always does as he’s told.’

Oh, no.

‘No. No!’

But Patrick’s fist was moving too fast for David to be able to stop it.

-x-

And here he is, in the now, sandwiched awkwardly in the middle of the fight, with everybody else either screaming or running or both, his chin throbbing, getting shouted at by both men to move.

In real life, the Bridget Jones Fight isn’t funny or romantic or flattering. It’s frightening. The sight of the man he loves, violent with rage, and the sick feeling that it’s his fault. The fear that Patrick could get hurt, or get arrested. The fear of any lover raising their fist. He’s dated enough horrible people to know that fear, all right.

They aren’t even fighting over him, not really. It’s over an image, a snapshot taken many years ago, when he was too high to notice or care. It’s over something he used to be, not what he is now.

‘What did you do to him?’ Patrick’s anger has lost its cold, businesslike edge, and is just very shouty, if muffled from being covered by David. ‘The bruises on him, on some of the other poor souls in your sick display, you should be ashamed!’

‘Stop trying to shame me for my sexual freedoms with consenting adults!’

‘But they weren’t “consenting”, were they? They were doing what they were told, when you even bothered to tell them, rather than doing whatever you liked behind their backs. That’s not consent!’

‘He’s right,’ shouts Alexis. ‘I looked it up.’

‘It doesn’t even matter,’ David tries to tell Patrick, without getting off him.

‘Of course it does!’

‘I thought we agreed to leave the past in the past.’

‘That _thing_ is a form of sexual abuse, and it’s here and it’s now.’

‘He’s also right about that,’ Alexis agrees. ‘I looked that up too, a while ago. It was for a thing.’

‘I can’t change what that sick bastard did in the past, but I can change what he’s doing now…’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Sebastien tells Patrick, ‘that’s my art!’

Sebastien is so distracted by his attempts to fight Patrick around David that he doesn’t notice Stevie running back in, clutching several large bottles of brightly coloured children’s poster paint.

Stevie is, David knows from bitter experience, a cruel opponent in the noble sport of Squeezy Bottle Water Fighting, and yet even he is transfixed by her jet range and aim as she manages to squirt a heroic amount of red and black paint up on to the offending photograph. 

Sebastien screams louder and with more horror than he did when Patrick broke his nose. He tries to get up, to launch himself at the tiny vandal, but David tilts forwards off Patrick, pinning Sebastien to the ground now. He’s almost proud that his ability to act as dead weight is proving so useful in this particular fight.

Stevie drops the spent red and black bottles to the floor, like a gunslinger shedding empty magazines, and reaches for blue and green. As Sebastien struggles out from under him, David notices that Alexis has joined in with a bottle of purple.

‘That’s enough,’ David calls, as Sebastien finally wriggles free. ‘You’ve made your point. Also, I don’t want to wreck the feminist tapestries, seriously Sebastien, what made you think this shared space was a good thematic fit for your work?’

Ted comes puffing in, dragging along a woman with a platter of cheese and an amused expression.

‘I can’t find any security guys anywhere,’ he explains, apologetically. ‘I had to make do with the catering manager.’

The catering manager takes the carnage in, calmly. ‘Another of your subjects, Mr Raine?’

‘Another?’ asks Stevie.

‘A Ms Ng was in before you,’ the manager explains, serenely. ‘Room 4, although that picture was removed by Ms Ng shortly after, following a brief scuffle in which Mr Raine sadly injured his testicles.’

‘And now I’ve been punched in the nose! What is wrong with the security in this place?’

‘You didn’t pay for any,’ smiles the manager. ‘You only paid for us. We don’t do security. Just cheese. As I said earlier, feel free to inform the police of your misfortune.’ She looks around at the photos. ‘You may have to explain a lot of these pictures, though.’

She nods at the newly mixed media piece – Rose Posterior, Concealed: Digital Photography (Raine, 2010) with Acrylics (Budd, Rose, 2019). ‘I like what you’ve done with that one.’

If David’s being honest, he doesn’t particularly like what they’ve done with it. True, you can’t see the worst of its grim explicitness any more, but with all of the poster paints dribbling together into a wet, brown mess, it somehow manages to look even more grotesque, especially considering the subject matter. Still, Stevie did her best. 

‘Thanks,’ pants Stevie. ‘Had to borrow some kids’ paints from the gift shop to do it, but I can pay the gallery back for those, I guess.’

‘Oh, but surely,’ chimes in David’s mother, ‘when the artistic muse takes one, then the artistic muse takes one. Stevie was merely overwhelmed with the urge to create her own aesthetic statement, concerning the importance of consent in the visual arts.’ 

‘It’s not an interactive piece!’ Sebastien, unsure of himself for a change, is pleading with the catering manager for some reason.

‘It’s my backside,’ announces David, with what he hopes is an air of dignity, ‘and it’s interactive when, and only when, I say it is. Thank you Stevie for your lovely addition to it. Alexis, I know you were only joining in because you enjoy doing graffiti.’

‘It always reminds me of that week Banksy left me in charge while he went on vaycay,’ Alexis says, wistfully. ‘Added three million pounds to the value of a cute little English gym, just by stenciling burgers on the fire escape.’

The catering manager shrugs. ‘I’m not going to charge you for paints or anything else,’ she says. ‘Again – I just do cheese.’ She pauses. ‘Oh! And I was asked to pass on Ms Ng’s cards.’

‘Oh, you’ll act as a messenger between prudes, but not as any kind of security when they attack me,’ Sebastien complains.

‘Mr Raine did sound very upset that in the years since he took Ms Ng’s photo, she has become “boring”, following her marriage to a lawyer,’ smiles the catering manager. ‘Ms Ng and her wife, on the other hand, took the photo away as evidence, requested a copy of the guest list and handed me some cards for anybody else who was not expecting to see their images exhibited in such an… intimate manner. She seemed fairly confident that there could be legal ramifications for Mr Raine, and wanted to make it very clear that there would be no charge for her wife’s services.’ She proffers a business card and a cube of cheddar on a cocktail stick. 

David takes the cheese. Patrick takes the card.

‘Fuck you,’ spits Sebastien.

‘You already did,’ says David, through the cheddar. ‘You took pictures, remember? Enjoy the rest of the exhibition.’

He turns to leave, again. David’s father, to his surprise, gives Sebastien a gentle clap on the shoulder.

‘And you know, Sebastien,’ he says, ‘if I were you, I’d change the title of this whole shebang. You’ve no right to call this “lovers”.’ He indicates around at the remaining pictures. ‘What you’re doing to these people is not “making love”. Believe me, I should know.’

‘_God_, Dad!’

‘And I trust that young Patrick has shown our son the difference between what you did and true lovemaking, too.’

‘Oh my God, _stop_!’

-x-

They make their way back to the cars.

‘Does your face hurt?’ asks Patrick.

‘Yep.’

‘The last thing I wanted was for you to get hurt.’

‘Well, the last thing _I _wanted was for you to start a fight, so I guess we both got what we didn’t want.’

‘Free lawyer, though,’ says David’s father. ‘Can’t hurt.’

‘Pretty sure she’s just for trying to sue Sebastien or whatever for his creepy collection,’ sighs David.

‘Yes, but when you speak with her…’

‘_If _I speak with her.’

‘David.’ Patrick’s tone is heavy. ‘You can’t be serious. You have to…’

‘OK, so I thought the moral to his whole horrible story is, we don’t make David do things or pressure him and stuff if he isn’t sure yet that he wants to do the things,’ snaps David. ‘We allow him to have agency and to make up his own mind.’

‘And why has David started referring to himself in the third person?’ Alexis asks.

‘Because he has had a very stressful day, Alexis! Oh, and speaking of not pressuring people, Ted, you really don’t have to let Alexis peg you, even for her birthday.’

‘Ew, David, stop preemptively trying to ruin my birthday!’

‘It’s OK,’ replies Ted. ‘We already tried that, and I didn’t like it.’

‘What?’

‘Remember?’ Ted asks her. ‘You put that clothes peg on my nipple and I asked you to take it off?’

‘Oh, my darling boy,’ chimes David’s mother, putting her arms around Ted and Alexis, ‘you’re not even remotely close.’

‘Ew, Mother.’

‘It’s all right, Alexis, I feel as a family that we’ve been forced to throw taboo to the wind somewhat today, and as adults, we should talk about these things more, anything to avoid another sexually unhealthy relationship for one of my poor babies. I have much to discuss with you on the trip home, Theodore, with illustrative videos if I can find them online again… wait. David! Please tell me you’re certain you haven’t also ended up in any online videos? You know that filmmaker who shall not be named who took a shine to you at Alexis’ Sweet 16 always seemed the sketchy kind.’

‘Nothing happened with that!’ He waves his parents, a disgusted looking Alexis and an affably bemused looking Ted into the family car, before turning to Stevie.

‘Something happened with that,’ he whispers, ‘but his people made me sign an NDA, so there certainly won’t be any footage coming from his side.’

Patrick gets in to Stevie’s car with him. ‘Too soon.’

‘Again, Patrick – my ass, my prerogative.’ 

‘Are you mad at me?’

Is he? He’s honestly not sure, but he says ‘no’, to be on the safe side. 

‘No’.

Patrick looks as unsure as David feels. ‘OK…’

‘…but,’ David manages, ‘I would like you to maybe go on a kind of an anger management course?’

‘What?’ Patrick looks horrified. ‘You think I need that?’

‘You just broke my ex’s nose because he called you human oatmeal, so yeah.’

‘I just broke your ex’s nose because he was bragging about sexually abusing the man I love.’

‘Patrick, I don’t care. I don’t want you breaking anyone’s nose. Especially over me. Because what happens if _I _make you that angry? It’s possible; I can be infuriating.’

‘David.’ The horror in Patrick’s eyes deepens. ‘You can’t possibly think I’d _ever_…’ He blinks, thinking. ‘Did _he _ever hit you?’

‘Well, he has now,’ replies David, indicating to his sore chin, ‘but he was aiming for you.’

‘You know what I mean. Those bruises…’

‘Sebastien wasn’t a hitter. He was a grabber, a pincher, a scratcher, occasionally a biter… nothing that we couldn’t both write off as rough playfulness at the time. But before today, I’ve never seen him lose his temper or raise a hand in anger.’

Patrick is still quiet and thoughtful. ‘Did _any_ of your exes hit you?’

He could reel off their names. Four of them: three men, one woman. He could relive the fear of those four in front of these two kindest lovers he’s ever known. If he wanted to. He doesn’t want to. He just looks out of the window.

‘Jesus, David,’ says Stevie softly, regarding him through the driver’s mirror.

‘Shit.’ Patrick’s reflection in the car window looks close to tears, although that might just be the rain. ‘What did you do?’

‘Rode it out,’ says David. ‘Ghosted them if I dared, usually just waited for them to ghost me, which was safer. They were all over within a few weeks anyway. But I’ll tell you what I never did – I never asked one of them to do anger management therapy the moment I felt unsafe. I didn’t feel like I was worth that, back then. I do now. And that’s down to you, so you’re kind-of hoist by your own petard, here.’

‘Damn my stupid petard,’ says Patrick, gently.

David turns back to Patrick. It had just been the rain, but that’s fine. He’s pretty sure Stevie’s wiping away a tear, so he’s one for two with his sad story.

Patrick reaches across the back seat for him, but leaves it for David to take his hand. ‘I will do anything to make you feel safe. And if that means never, ever leaping in to action as some sort of ridiculous Knight in shining armour ever again, then so be it.’

David accepts the hand. ‘Thank you.’

A comfortable silence descends, but only for a handful of seconds.

‘So, did you actually seduce Sebastien Raine’s work out of him and destroy it, while I was minding our shop?’

‘It was actually a couple of weeks before we launched, so it was while you were organizing stock, but yes. It was all very James Bondy, if the franchise had the courage to do anything other than merely imply James Bond’s queerness. I think Sebastien might have taken it a teensy bit personally.’

‘Well,’ replies Patrick, ‘keeping in mind that Stevie only destroyed a hard copy and Sebastien will still have the digital image saved and be able to make more copies whenever he likes…’

‘Ah,’ sighs Stevie at the wheel, ‘I didn’t think of that.’

‘It’s your choice if and how you want to keep him from displaying another copy,’ Patrick continues. ‘If that means you going James Bond on him again, then I’ll support you.’

David shakes his head. ‘He’s probably wise to that tactic by now.’

‘Or,’ says Patrick, ‘you can call Jenny Ng, connect with some more of the human beings attached to those headless bruised hips and thighs up on the walls of that exhibition and make sure all of them get justice. Stop him humiliating anyone else.’

David looks at the card in Patrick’s hand. ‘You’ll go to anger management?’

‘Unconditionally.’

‘Well.’ David takes the card. ‘Sounds like a fair trade.’

Another silence. The atmosphere in the car has shifted. A weighty sadness has evaporated.

‘It was Kevin Spacey, wasn’t it?’ says Stevie, after a while.

‘What?’

‘Your NDA.’

‘Stevie, it’s an NDA. That means I don’t disclose who it was, or indulge in creepy guessing games about it.’

‘Tom Cruise?’ asks Patrick.

‘Oh God.’

‘OK,’ says Stevie, ‘if you’re not allowed to name names, can we do David’s Celebrity NDA Guess Who?’

‘No!’

‘Is he a White guy?’

‘We are not playing Guess Who with my NDA!’

‘Does he have blue eyes?’ asks Patrick.

‘Ugh!’

THE END


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